


you are nothing what you seem (you're always looking out for me)

by themosthappy



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, Implied/Referenced Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 21:37:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6924376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themosthappy/pseuds/themosthappy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She makes comments on your breasts and your neck and what sort of dress you could wear and how low cut it would be, and the obvious interest in your body raises instinctive revulsion in you, just as it would in Flemeth.</p><p>(Along with it, curiosity).</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are nothing what you seem (you're always looking out for me)

**Author's Note:**

> _you'll never contemplate that i am near_  
>  and help goes unseen  
> you're the cave admitting who you choose  
> and i could be there for you  
> —eisley, "i could be there for you"
> 
> i was replaying origins the other day and yep, still no way morrigan is straight.

”Foolish,” you say, contempt thick in your voice, “the girl is foolish. The wilds would eat her alive.”

The warden doesn't even glance up. “Good thing we aren't in the wilds, right?” 

Your scowl could burn down a city, and you click your tongue once in distaste. The warden laughs too long and too loud. 

-

You find her even more obnoxious as you travel, and to make it worse, the warden persists upon her presence at all times. You can easily figure why. After all, you're annoyed, not blind; her figure curves like a winding river, and men gaze at her as you pass, tempted like dogs with a bone. 

Admittedly, you had thought him above such idle fancies, trivial pursuits like a woman's heat. A future hero cannot be caught up with love for a maiden, not if he wishes to live happily ever after and end things well. Falling in love with a fairytale girl like Leliana will throw a wrench into all that. Still, his affection is obvious enough, even in the early stages, and you know him well enough to know you cannot warn him against anything he wants. 

So you wait, patiently, for the signs. The spared glances, the blushing, the inconspicuous noises at night. You wait for him to kiss her cheek every chance, for her to hang on his arm like a leech and kiss his Cousland jaw. 

He will make some grand announcement to the camp, such is his way, and you amuse yourself at night with the thought of the others' reactions. You can see it now. Sten will be incredibly unimpressed, and Alistair will probably wet himself at the thought of having to find another leg to thrust himself on. Oghren will get roaring drunk and splutter his way through the night. Wynne will spare a smug glance at you, as if this affects you at all. As if you care in the slightest for his romantic interests, or for the romantic interests of any man at all. 

And then he will kiss her chantry sister mouth and they will laugh, as if there is not an archdemon to kill or genlocks waiting to strike. As if there are not more important things. 

You wait for the day, sneer poised. 

\- 

It never comes. 

Instead, the child prods gently at you during your adventures, and sits beside you at camp. She hums while you dry your hair and chatters happily while you pointedly ignore her. She makes comments on your breasts and your neck and what sort of dress you could wear and how low cut it would be, and the obvious interest in your body raises instinctive revulsion in you, just as it would in Flemeth. 

(Along with it, curiosity). 

She offers to help you with your hair, once: you've both just come back from the river after a quick bath, and you're running your fingers through the mane when she pipes up. 

“In Orlais, we did all sorts of hairstyles,” she chirps at you, “braids and buns and all kinds. Your hair is so beautiful, Morrigan, the things I could do!” 

You're shocked to your core, and it must show on your face, because she laughs in this tinkly little way while she reaches for your dripping locks. You fight the urge to spit in her chantry sister face and flee. 

\- 

The next day, your bun is slightly more elaborate, and the smirk the warden gives you says it all. 

\- 

It seems impossible. A math equation that doesn't quite figure. Your mother took men to her bed, not women, and it only seemed natural that you should follow her example. A man's strong arms, not a woman's. Not a bard's. How disgusting. 

Leliana is her name. You think, fleetingly, that you could get used to the roll of it in your mouth. 

“You remind me a little of Marjolaine,” Leliana tells you over dinner, sat next to you in camp like it's her place to do so, and a hush falls over everyone. You give her a sidelong look, filled with skepticism, and you catch the shadow that passes over her face. Strange. 

“I'm sorry, whom? If that is supposed to be some sort of clever insult-” 

The warden catches your eye and shakes his head once, his mouth a grim line. For once, you fall silent, though not without hidden contempt. So much for dining with the others. You stab your soup with unnecessary vigor, irritated. 

Later that night she crosses to your side of the camp, a new feat, and sets herself next to you. Her armor clinks, and even that about her is delicate. 

She tells you, in one long gush, about Marjolaine, and the hurt written across her face makes something deep within you ache. You are quiet as the grave until she finishes, looking at you with expectant eyes. 

“Should I...” Your tongue is dry, ridiculous. “You think I've betrayed you?” _Stupid girl, there is nothing between us to betray. I would throw you to the dogs in a moment._

She shakes her head quickly, eyes wide with the Chantry's spoon fed innocence, and the irony threatens to make you choke. 

“No! No, I only meant...” Her finger draws pictures in the dirt, but you instead watch her mouth as it curls around her syllables. Leliana's accent makes her tongue move in a strange way, different from your korcari twang, and it's more interesting than anything you've ever seen. She hesitates, takes a breath, and hesitates again, which is all very amusing and perplexing for you. 

“I compare you because you are both very dear to me, but I...have the nagging feeling it's not the same way for you. I understand if you think I am strange, or that I am not worth your time, or if you are disgusted by me. I am used to it.” 

Disgusted. She must be joking. 

_You couldn't disgust me if you tried for a thousand years, songbird._

“I do not think you could disgust anyone,” you tell her instead, extracting yourself delicately from the matter, and despite the deadpan of your voice she beams like the sun. 

\- 

You wonder if Flemeth ever felt this way, if Flemeth ever leaned over and kissed a chantry sister right on the mouth. You wonder if she ever had that sister's tongue against the inside of her cheek, the way Morrigan does now, or if she ever had soft fingers curled in her hair. You suspect not. 

She makes a noise against your lips that might be your name or might be a moan, but either way it's the opposite of chaste and you take a great deal of pride in that. 

You wipe your mouth afterwards but she lingers there, the taste of her on your tongue. You avoid her entirely the next day, but you can still feel her eyes on you when you bathe. 

\- 

She's wowed by the luxury of Arl Eamon's estate, and you cannot help your little smirk at the way she nearly runs throughs the halls. _Like a child_ , a mean voice whispers. _You want her_. 

You brush it away and go to make yourself comfortable in the warden's rooms, her overjoyed rambling following behind. 

\- 

You make love to a Cousland to save his life. 

It's not awkward, because you're closer than any two people and this is for the both of you. For your child and for his life. 

You roll around on the bed like lovers, but you know he's picturing you with blond hair and elven ears, because how else? That's fine, because sometimes you close your eyes and pretend it's red hair under your hands, wide blue eyes watching you writhe. 

And when you moan her name against his neck, he makes no comment. He's a good man. 

\- 

There's whispers of the Inquisition's spymaster that fateful night in Orlais, and you think, _fine. Fine, if this is the game. If this is the game, I don't want to play. I never did._

She doesn't say hello to you at Halamshiral, and you cannot blame her. She is a grown woman now, no longer prying into your mouth with her sly tongue, no longer looking for a quick tryst in the trees. A worldly little thing, the universe hanging on the flick of her wrist. Still, you think you catch her looking a few times. You're certain you catch her staring at the other ladies of the ball, and her longing to be dressed to the nines is as obvious as it is amusing. You wonder if she would approve of your dress; you had it designed exactly how she described it so long ago, down to the cut. Though what had seemed playfully clever at the time simply feels foolish in practice, since in practice, Leliana ignores you completely, and your face burns with undeniable shame. 

But you can't help it, even now: as you watch her watch others, you wonder if maybe there's a little longing in her gaze, if she's wanting for something else besides a pretty dress- 

You crush that thought under your heel and whirl away, continuing your hunt for the Inquisitor. 

\- 

You don't plan to seek her out in Skyhold, honest. It just sort of happens one day. 

Kieren is busy with his studies, and you are left free to wander the estate. The sense of family here, you find, is stronger than you had previously expected. You're instantly reminded of a flimsy camp, bawdy stories told over a fire, before you shush that spark out. There is no use dwelling on the past, Flemeth once said. It only rakes up old memories and, occasionally, tears. You are a grown woman now, you tell yourself as you ask about the Spymaster's whereabouts, and you have no use for such idle fancies. You climb the steps delicately, and if your pace is a little quicker than usual, there's no one around to mock you. 

You find Leliana in the tallest tower of the hold, a raven on her arm. Like a princess in a story, you think scathingly. She's still holding onto her mother's tales of love and valor, it seems, even if she now plays the part of cutthroat spymaster. 

You purse your lips, clear your throat to catch her attention. 

She whirls with all the grace of a maiden, and when she spots you her eyes widen in that familiar way and her mouth forms a small 'o'. The sweetness of it crawls in your throat, and what once made you gag now makes you want to smile, fondness coming to life like it was never gone at all. 

“Morrigan,” she fumbles out, the shock evident on her face. The raven caws once and flies away, as if leaving you your privacy. “This is...this is a surprise.” 

“Is it?” You run your fingers over the railing, appearing absent-minded. “The inquisitor did not inform you of my presence?” 

She looks torn. “Well, yes, but I did not.” She clears her throat in turn, appearing flustered all of the sudden, and in that, too, you take great pride. “I did not think you would come to see me,” she finishes, gazing up at you from underneath her lashes, and you can't help but laugh. Your hand comes to rest on her arm, and her eyes catch on it, wide like a deer. You feel perfectly wolfish. 

“Consider it a visit from an old friend.” 

The servants must gape like monkeys when you catch your mouth on hers; they must nearly fling themselves from the tower in excitement when they see their spymaster using tongue.


End file.
